The Fate of a Rider
by NKofod
Summary: It has been a long time since Eragon and Saphira left Alagessïa. But now Alagessïa is calling them back.
1. Prologue

And though it had been many years since Eragon Bromson, Shadeslayer, Killer of Kings, Dragonrider, and Saphira Brightscale, Firebreath had last set foot in Alagessïa, their legacy was never forgotten. For while many of the humans, dwarves, urgals, even some of the elves who knew them had died, withered, faded or however the race in question put it, the bards still told their legend, still sung to their honour, still told of their glory.

And on the first day of each year, a dragon rider would appear on the horizon, and Arya Drottning would go to the highest tower in Ellesmerá, in the hopes that Eragon had found a way to break his destiny, to return to Alagessïa, to return to her. And every year, her heart broke again. For it was never Eragon.

Blödgharm had been the first, and he told of the places they'd seen, the place where they were building their new home. And every time Arya heard the word "home" associated with Eragon, she winced, feeling as if someone had stabbed yet another needle into her heart.

She knew that she had made the proper choice, just not if she had made the right. For while there was no end to the line of elves and humans who wished to woo her, none of them quite compared to Eragon. And when she told Orik, he laughed aloud, and told her how the betting pool had always been if she'd be an ice queen, like she'd been, and refuse Eragon, or if she'd embrace her feelings, which were obvious to any blind man.

She had pondered his words long and hard, after she'd had him thrown into the river leading from Ellesmerá to the Beor Mountains of course, and in the end she realized how true they were. She had always been fond of Eragon, even when he acted like a silly fool, she had just never realized just how fond of him she was.

And now she had reverted to her ice queen persona, believing that the love of her life had left forever.

For elves are not like other beings. While humans can fall in love countless times, and even dwarves can fall in love again if their mate dies, if an elf is in love, its forever. They can feel a certain amount of attraction to other people, but they have one true mate, one true love. And that love never disappears. It can be trampled over, hidden away, pulled apart and put back together in a horrendous form. But it will always be there…

**Author's note:  
**_Yes, I know I took this down once, some time ago, and only now I put it up again. Sue me. My story, my choice._

**Disclaimer:**  
_I'm only going to do this once for this entire story, but Inheritance Cycle and all of it's characters, locations and blah-blah-blah belong to Christopher Paolini and various publishers, etc. etc. _


	2. Chapter 1 - The Message

The Skulblaka Mountains, or Dragon Mountains, was a truly magnificent sight. Each had throughout centuries been shaped into what they were now. Castles. With openings large enough to accommodate even the oldest dragons, they were the headquarters of the new Order of the Dragon Riders.

And though the leader of said order was centuries old, he only looked like a man in his early twenties, with a single grey hair here and there. His dark brown hair was as unruly as always, his blue eyes shone with wisdom and power, his hands, though scarred from centuries of use, was strong as ever, and the sapphire sword on his back was as sharp as the day it had been made.

His name was Eragon. He had abandoned all other titles, but Ibrithil, since every dragon rider was equal to him. He treated everyone with respect, even those who didn't deserve it.

Centuries of living had calmed the formerly unruly boy, into a disciplined and strict man. His face showed no sign of his age, however, as he made sure to keep wounds from scarring in his face. It seemed that a few signs of his former vanity had remained.

On the day that the messenger arrived from Alagessïa, requesting the presence of a Dragon Rider for the annual games, he was sitting in the council room, mentally communicating with Saphira.

"How did the young dragons do today? Do you see any improvement?"  
"Not very much. Thorn, the younger, seems to have grasped how to do a barrel roll, but the rest are still struggling. We may have to move him ahead to a different course."  
"His rider, however, is still struggling with the basics of the Ancient Language. Perhaps moving Thorn ahead would inspire him to work harder..."

Whatever else he was going to say was interrupted by seven polite knocks on the door.

"Enter." Commanded Eragon. How he hated being the leader of this order, people always came calling when he was talking to Saphira. However, he took it in stride, waiting for someone who could take the position and rule over them fairly. So far, he had seen none.

As the door opened, he could sense the surface thoughts of the person who entered, and a bit more information about him. When the face became visible, his suspicions were confirmed. It was one of the messengers from Alagessïa, who had likely arrived on one of the rider-less dragons.

He was tall and slim, though not without a hint of muscles beneath his clothes. His dark hair shone in the flickering light of the werelight, his grey eyes capturing Eragon's own in a second. He had high cheekbones, with an angular face and a high forehead.

"What brings you here, Messenger of Alagessïa?" the ancient dragon rider asked.

"I bring news from our King, and I bring a request from Queen Arya herself." The messenger answered, his voice lighter than his appearance would suggest.

"Bring forth the scrolls then, and I shall read them. Then go rest, I shall have an answer for you tonight." Was the reply from Eragon, as he held out a hand for the scrolls. The messenger hurriedly gave him two scrolls, each of a considerable size, and then left the room, leaving Eragon alone again.

"That was, interesting." Sounded Saphira's voice within his mind.

"How so?" Came the calm reply.

"Did you not notice how he hurried out, the moment you dismissed him? I'd say your legend has been exaggerated. Again." There was a note of amusement in her voice as she said it, while Eragon mentally groaned.

"I wonder what it is this time. That I have godly powers? Can kill everyone in the world with a single word? That a mere thought from me is enough to perform extraordinary feats of magic?" While his tone was just as amused as Saphira's, he was truly annoyed, and she knew it just as well as he did. There was a reason he had cast aside all of his names, but Eragon and (teacher in the Ancient Language). For while he, with his knowledge of the name of the Ancient Language, had near godly powers, he didn't like the attention, and he didn't like to be forced into situations where he had to use them.

Turning his attention to the scrolls, he found that one of them, to his surprise, bore the seal of the Durgrimst Ingeitum, while the other bore the seal of Arya, which was to be expected from what the messenger had said.

Deciding to save Arya's letter for later, he broke the seal on the scroll from the dwarves and opened it, only to find that it was invisible. Frowning, he muttered a few short words and with a small flash, the text appeared.

"Interesting," he thought, with a small frown.

"You're invited to attend the 275th annual games it seems. Did they not remember our Wyrd?" was Saphira's reply. He could feel her worry for his reaction. Their wyrd had always been a thing he had tried to break, and nothing had yet succeeded. He had tried for a few years to fly back, but powerful winds had kept pushing him back, and when he tried to sail, it only got worse. He had, after a while, thought it best not to test fate anymore and just stay where he was. It didn't mean he was happy about it, but he realized that it could be much worse.

"I think they are just trying to be polite. You do remember all of the other invitations, don't you? But no matter, I think... I think it may be time to try again." The last part came out so emotional that it would have been the equivalent of sobbing, had he been talking.

Saphira decided not to answer, not wanting to let him down, but not thinking it would succeed. Instead, she silently urged him to open Arya's letter.

He did, and he had to repeat the words from before to see the text again.

Dear Eragon

I hope this letter finds you well. It should. As you may have seen, King Thane the second has send you yet another invitation to join us for the Games. This time, it wasn't his idea. It was mine. I have, throughout many years, kept trying to find Angela, to hear about your wyrd. And I finally did. Eragon, the "never" that was mentioned in the wyrd was the "never" of a mortal. You can return Eragon, for all mortal creatures who lived when you last set foot in Alagessïa has passed away.

There was a few stains from tears, which baffled Eragon, since Arya had chosen Alagessïa over him.

You could create a new order of the dragon riders, right here. There would be no danger anymore, since you have grown to the old size of the order.

Return Eragon. For Alagessïa. For me.

She had drawn a beautiful heart next to the words "for me".

All my love  
Arya, Queen of Du Weldenwarden

As he finished reading, Eragon nearly burst into tears. He could finally return to Alagessïa. He could come home. He quickly composed himself however. He was the leader of the riders, and had to act as such. And he did.

He walked to the dining hall, where he knew most riders would be at this time of the day, with true strides. As he opened the doors, he took a moment to marvel in its beauty. Created by magic as it was, it wasn't just a building, it was a piece of art. The walls had been sculpted so they told the stories of dragon riders long dead. Eragon's own story was there as well.

He marched to the podium, turned to face everyone and clapped once, using a small amount of magic to magnify the sound and get everyone's attention.

"Brothers," he started, "Sisters. For too long have we been unable to fly freely. For too long have we been cut off from the birth place of our order. For too long have we been the only intelligent beings we could talk to. No more! I have recently acquired information that I should have suspected long ago. We're going home lads. We're going to Alagessïa."


	3. Chapter 2 - The Arrival

Arya was standing in the tallest tower in Ellesmerá, looking at the horizon for signs of a dragon. But while she could see no dragon, she could see a mass of clouds in the distance. She could even hear the thunder. But it was strange. She had never heard thunder like that. It was almost rhythmic. Almost like…

She very nearly fell as the realization hit her. It wasn't clouds. It was dragons. Hundreds of them. And since all the wild dragons had perished, that would mean that there would riders on all of them. And perhaps, dare she hope, Eragon would be on one of them.

"Skulblaka!" She shouted at the elves on the ground surrounding the tower, "Prepare the cabins." She climbed down; moving at a speed that far surpassed that of a human, yet the grace of it had a certain feline quality to it.

She went to her private quarters, quickly finding the outfit she always kept ready, in case Eragon returned. As she pulled it out of the wardrobe however, she frowned at the sight of the holes in it. It seemed the moths had been there.

Deciding to not even try to fix it with magic, she went to her tailor, asking to have an outfit just like it. And as he measured for the tight green shirt, the combat ready black pants and the long black leather boots, she thought about it. Logically she knew that even if he'd gotten her letter, she'd turned him down all those years ago, and that he may very well have found a new girl, and just returned because he could return to Alagessïa. That is, if he had joined the other riders. He could, for all she knew, still be sitting in his throne chair, so far away, and there was nothing she could do.

As the tailor finished taking measurements, she left the room, telling him to have it brought to the palace. She wandered down the alleys of Ellesmerá, unlike her normal strolls, not taking in the beauty of the forest. She was deep in thought, her mind focused on one thing, namely Eragon. She could still recall every detail of his face, every wrinkle, every shade of blue his eyes had been, even the exact colour of his magic.

As she walked, she instinctively reached out to Fírnen, only to find the connection missing. As always. He had disappeared many years ago, their connection suddenly severing. That had been yet another reason she had reverted to her Ice Queen persona.

No one knew what had happened, not even her, his rider. It had happened suddenly, they were communicating through our link, and suddenly it was severed. She couldn't feel him anymore, scrying wouldn't work, almost as if he'd died. But she couldn't believe that, she wouldn't believe that. She'd organized search parties once a year, ever since he disappeared. For every party that returned without leads, she sank deeper into depression, but hid it. No one could know.

The thunder of dragon wings pulled her out of the deep thoughts, and she hurried back to the palace, finding her new outfit in a finely wrapped package, which she quickly tore open and then pulled out the shirt. She stripped to her undergarments and put on the pants, then the shirt and boots. She looked in the mirror, admiring her appearance. The clothes accentuated her already impressive curves, which she fully planned on exploiting, in case Eragon was with the riders.

She entered the throne room, walking to her throne with true strides, sitting and waiting for the riders to arrive. And she didn't have to wait long. Only twenty minutes did she have to wait before they arrived, and they did so in style.

A group of three entered the throne room, dressed in formal armour with their helmets under the arm and each with a sword by their side. Each sheath was in a different colour, made by hardwood it seemed, one in gold, one in dark grey and one in crimson.

Their armour was made in colours which complimented the colour of the sheath. She knew of the riders traditions, and knew that if their swords were that colour, their dragon would be too. This made her all the more disappointed to find no sapphire sword.

"Greetings Dragon Riders. I bid thee welcome to Ellesmerá and extend the offer of hospitality. Thou and thy fellow riders are welcome to stay here for as long as thee may wish. May I inquire as to thy names and positions?" She managed to deliver the small speech without changing her facial expression other than her lips moving, not even her eyes conveying her disappointment that Eragon was not amongst them.

Her words was met with mixed reactions from the riders. The one with the golden armour, who were standing closest to her didn't seem to be affected at all by the words. He had the look of an elf, but she couldn't say for sure. Riders did, after all, start looking like elves after a while.

The others however, seemed to be trying, and failing, to hide their excitement at the idea of staying in Ellesmerá, which told her one of two things. Either they were homesick elves, or they were humans. And judging by their looks, she'd place her bet on the latter of the two. They still had a distinguish _human_ look.

"Greetings Queen Arya Shadeslayer. I am Argetdatia Draumr. My two companions are Eybjörn Drosboi and Frey Galti, both apprentices of mine. As to my position, I am the second in command of our leader. He himself is teaching a group of young riders in the Ancient Language." He said, the voice deep but strangely melodic. His name had confirmed her suspicions. He had to be an elf with that name. And the two others did indeed seem to be human. But that wasn't important.

"What is the name of thy leader?" She asked, deep inside already knowing the answer, but still afraid to hear it. She didn't want to know that _He _had chosen to teach instead of meeting her.

The deep voice started on a longer speech, but she only heard the first three syllables; "Eragon…"


	4. Chapter 3 - The Pyrokinetic

In a different part of Alagessïa, a man moved around in the shadows of a forest. He had long ago lost sight of his hunters, but he knew they would still be tracking him. After all, he did kill many of their numbers.

Seeing a small lake, he stopped to drink and rested until he heard the dogs barking in the distance. He took off again, moving from shadow to shadow. They could not be allowed to see him. Not until he reached his destination.

He could hear the dogs come closer and started moving faster, caring less about hiding in the shadows and more about reaching his destination. But the hunters eventually caught up to him, and as they slowly, cautiously, entered the clearing where he was standing, he drew his sword, taking it in both hands and entering a fighting stance.

They stood like that for what seemed like an eternity, before one of the cloaked hunters made a diagonal slash at him. He leaned backwards just enough to avoid the blade and took a quick one-handed stab at the hunters stomach. The hunter jumped back, but not fast enough to completely avoid the blade. He received a small wound on his stomach, blood colouring his royal blue shirt a dark purple.

Another hunter decided to take the chance to attack him in the hope that he would be distracted enough to get in an easy hit. He wasn't. The hunter who attacked had used a sloppy vertical slash, and a simple parry deflected the blade enough for him to step in and cut the hunter's throat. The hunter in question collapsed, gurgling sounds coming from the sudden opening in his throat.

The remaining hunter released the dogs, which came at him with a ferocity only seen in dogs trained to kill. As they jumped at him, he raised his left hand and clenched it into a fist, muttering a few words under his breath. The dogs were dead before they hit the ground.

By now, the first hunter had managed to block out the pain enough to make another attempt at attacking, but he was slower than before. That proved to be his downfall.

Seeing the attack coming a long time before it landed, he ducked under it, hitting the hunter in the stomach, exactly where the wound was placed, with his left hand which was still clenched in a fist. The hunter gasped in pain, losing the blade in his hand as he curled into a ball on the ground.

Leaving him for later, the man turned to face the last man, only to find a stab coming towards his shoulder, the place his heart had been a moment before. It hit…

And was blocked by something with a metallic sound.

"Tsk tsk. I would have expected better from the infamous Trinity of Hunters. You truly are weak, aren't you?" He kicked the third hunter in the chest, sending him flying across the clearing. And as the 'man' crossed the distance within a second, did the hunter realize that they may not have been hunting a human. He didn't have the time to speculate further as he felt a sword being driven through his heart.

The 'man' walked back to the wounded hunter, picked him up by the collar and started walking towards a small village nearby. As they arrived, he threw the hunter on the ground a few meters away from him.

"Watch," he said, the hunter realizing how inhuman the sound was. The being stood with arm lifted in the direction of the town, his hand ready to snap.

"Burn," he whispered and snapped his fingers. And the village burned…


	5. Chapter 4 - The Master

Eragon was sitting on the top of a hill, in a meditating position, extending his senses to feel all the life around him. A few hundred years ago, he would've been able to feel perhaps a hundred meters clearly, and then it would get blurry, and in the end, not possible to detect. Now, however, he was well over a mile, and it showed no signs of getting blurry. As such, he knew what the messenger was going to say several minutes before he arrived.

The messenger was panting slightly, as he said; "Ebrithil. Argetdatia wishes for you to present yourself at the castle." He opened his mouth to say something else, but Eragon raised a hand to stop him.

"I know young one." He said and started the walk to the palace. His steps was long, his back straight and his gaze locked on the target, as much as it could from where he was.

As he walked, his thoughts drifted to Arya. He could still remember every single time he'd seen her, every single second of every single conversation. He could remember how beautiful she had looked as she stood, sword drawn and bathed in blood, after the battle for Farthen Dur. How his heart had skipped a beat and beaten so loudly he was afraid she'd hear it every time he saw her.

As he entered Ellesmerá again, he felt the melodies of the elven minds press against the border of his own, the sounds both calming and disturbing. But he had lived for so long, that his own mind had started to develop something similar, so he paid it no heed, and just kept walking. Until he came across one mind that he recognized and then went to see her.

"Good evening Rhünon." He said as he looked at the master smith. "I wish to extend my order and my gratitude for the blades you have provided us with. I am glad that the brightsteel we found by our new headquarters could be put to good use."

"See to it that you keep up with delivering the steel, boy. I still want to experiment with armour in that steel. I'll keep sending you the tests. You always seem to manage to ruin your armour no matter who made it. I don't know how, but you're a great test person." At the end, Eragon could see the smallest tug of Rhünon's lips and feel a tiny bit of amusement from her mind, even beyond the walls.

"I shall. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go see the Queen. Apparently my lieutenant has run into a problem where he needs my authority." He bowed, and left, even as he heard Rhünon shout something in the lines of "I'll have the next sample ready soon."

As he continued his stroll through the city of Ellesmerá, he saw Vanir, and send a short thought towards him. _"Greetings Vanir. May I ask how your Queen is doing?"_ And a few seconds later, when he had localized the source of the thought, Vanir send a response in the same way, _"She is doing ill, Ebrithil. She has not quite been the same since you and Saphira left. And even less since Fírnen disappeared."_

_"Fírnen disappeared? Saphira is not going to be happy about that. She was rather smitten with him."_

_"She has not found a mate yet? I am surprised. Even amongst dragons was she a beauty."_

_"No, she hasn't. She seemed determined to either have him, or have no mate."_

_"And you? Did you find a mate amongst your people, the riders?"_

_"No…" _The way Eragon left the sentence hanging clearly told that he did not wish for the conversation to continue. Not on that topic at the very least.

_"Very well, Ebrithil. I bid you a good day, and a good stay. Come see me if you want a reminder of whose race is superior."_ Though the last words were spiteful like in the old days, Eragon could hear the amusement behind them and could almost picture Vanir's expression when he send the thought.

As he arrived at the palace, he struggled to remember its name, until it came to him. The Tialdarí Hall. Its beauty had not changed since he last saw it, all those many years ago. The doors were still decorated in a flowery style, and the pillars wouldn't have looked out of place in the palace of an emperor. But then again, the Hall was the palace of the King or Queen of the elves.

He entered, pushing the doors open with a wave of his hand and walked through the doors, the aura of a true leader surrounding him. His steps long and purposeful, his back as straight as the blade of his sword, his eyes glinting with the ferocity of a dragon, a trait he got from Saphira and his hand on the hilt of his sword.

He looks up and locks his gaze with that of the Queen. Though he logically knew who it would be, the sight of her completely overwrote anything else within his mind. A whisper escaped his lips,

"Arya…"


End file.
